Redemption
by midfielder
Summary: Chase your fear. story premise: post i do.
1. To Let Go

A/N: Lost ain't mine.

He would have paced, back and forth, like an expectant father waiting outside the delivery room. But he's finding it difficult to stand as it is, let alone to walk. He's taken to leaning against the wall instead, clutching the radio to his chest as though it was his lifeline.

Here we go again, he thinks. It pools in his stomach, and it churns, swirls, and grows just like when spinning yarn, only the yarn is his insides and the spinning is gaining speed, becoming intense, bordering on violent. He leans his head against the wall in the attempt to fight off the impending nausea with some sense of balance, an anchor. He should be used to it by now, but he's not. Fear has no masters; it can't be tamed, only negotiated with.

One. So he starts to count.

Two. The nausea takes hold. And he has to close his eyes.

Three. Only to be startled awake again. "What do we do now, Jack?" she asks pointedly.

Four. He breathes in deeply. Almost in relief.

Five. "We wait."

----

"Jack." She breathes out his name, ragged and gasping. They are still on the move.

"Kate. Are you safe?" comes his reply, voice even and calm.

He waits for the response, the contraption gurgling back to life. "Yes, at least, we think we are. For now."

"Sawyer will make sure you stay that way." The mention of his name makes him wince, but only in the briefest of moments, the sudden ache quenched into a dull, distant pain; he still has business to take care of. "Now, tell me the story."

"We won't leave this island without you, Jack," she says, defiant.

He blinks at that, his calculating mind slow to comprehend. "What are you…?"

"There are two islands, Jack. One's ours. The other, theirs. And right now, we're on theirs."

He spins on his heels, eyeing the blonde in surprise and outrage. He's treated to a cold stare and a knowing smile. "Dammit, this isn't happening!"

"Yes, it's not. Because we're getting you out of there. We can do this; we'll figure out a plan and come back for you..."

"Kate, no," he cuts her off. Hope is not something he needs. "Let me talk to Sawyer."

"I'm not going to run anymore, Jack."

That manages to derail his thoughts for only a beat as his mind quickly flits for a comeback. But she keeps at it, pounding his head with memories that detaches him from the here and the now.

"That first day, when I stitched you up, you told me the story about your first operation. A sixteen year old girl. A cut to her dural sac. You were going to lose her. But you sucked it up, the fear. Counted to five. Stitched her up and she was fine."

"Kate…"

"Guess what I'm doing now."

He smiles sadly through the radio, and wonders idly if they'd ever see each other again. How she might look, feel, react if she were to see him again. If she would smile and hug him, hold onto him like he was missed, loved. If she would find it in her capacity to forgive him then for what he was about to say now.

Because he has found the one thing he's sure would crush what little morsel of hope she has. "I saw you, Kate."

"With him."

It worked. He could feel her shock and guilt in the silence. "Get back to camp, Kate. You don't have anything to come back for here."

"Jack, wait, no. I can explain." She tries to keep him talking, keep him on the line. And oh how she tries, but her words are mere band-aid for a gushing wound.

"What you saw, it's not what it seems. Jack, it's…"

"I want you to know that I…," he swallows whatever amount of pride he has left.

"I didn't do it for him."

"Wait, Jack, I…"

There are a number of ways to finish that sentence. I'm sorry. I'm going to miss you. I love you. But he doesn't wait for her to finish it but rather proceeds to wrench out the batteries from the radio.

He prefers it that way.

----

There comes a stage in human life when one has to learn to let go. Why it took him so long to do so, he can only speculate. Why it took a plane crash, an inconceivably bizarre island, a certain brunette for him to realize this, he doesn't know.

Why this. Why that.

They are the most curious things, the most insidious of questions. To which he has no answers. They don't bother him now as much as he thought they should. But then, isn't that the whole point: he _can_ let go.

The Red Sox won.

Somewhere in the planet, Sarah's happy.

And Kate.

He'd like to believe she will be, too. In time.


	2. To Chase Fear

She screams his name into the radio twice. But all she gets for a response is static.

She has to physically slow down, her mind assaulted by adrenaline, fear, possibilities, and their implications, all at once. And she tries to sift through all of them in one bound, to condense them in a singular, structured thought. But it is impractical; the overriding voice in her head tells her there's no time for this.

----

No time to count.

"I'm going back for him."

"You know as well as I do that if you go back for him, you die."

"I won't leave him."

----

No time for guilt.

"He means that much to you, eh?"

Only stares.

"Look, Freckles, if you have a plan, then I'm all for it. If you don't, I suggest you keep those dainty feet of yours running."

----

No time to lie.

"You know I don't have a plan. But that doesn't justify us leaving him here."

"Doc's made his decision, Freckles. Best to honor it."

----

No time to argue.

"Well, I've made mine."

----

In retrospect, one can say that every decision she's made, she has done on a whim, with no real concern for its repercussions, only with what she had to gain. She'd broken a vase once. To escape her mother's wrath, she lied to her teeth. To cover up the bruises and the questions, she wore long-sleeved shirts. To avoid the bruises and the questions altogether, she blew up her dad. To save herself, she killed the man she loved. To be free, she ran away.

When she turns the other direction and starts to run, it doesn't surprise her. It really isn't much of a choice than a whim. The impulse has won, instinct has taken over: she has to see him. For the moment, she can't be bothered with what that could ultimately mean.

But what she does know well are the immediate consequences. Lives, including hers, are on the balance. It just so happens that, right this minute, it was Jack's that mattered.

So she runs. Long, swift and deliberate strides through the clearing.

To save him, she has to chase fear.


	3. To Live Together

"I won't leave him," she says. He wonders offhandedly if she knows she's shaking.

And he should be angry really. Huff and puff, and spit out the bitter taste in his mouth: make up your damn mind, woman.

But all he gets out is "He means that much to you, eh?"

She stares at him. He should have stopped arguing then. He's been around her enough to know that look.

But it's acutely satisfying to see her all bothered so he keeps it up.

When finally, she dismisses him and turns to run, he, being the gentleman that he is, decides to give her a head start.

----

It's already started raining. And he's feeling cranky, his hair getting on his face and on his nerves.

"Hate to put a wrinkle on your rescue plan, Freckles." He says, in between breaths. "But how do we even know where he is?"

"He's in surgery right now. Operating on Ben. Don't ask."

"Not asking. Hell yeah. Mr. Bunny's all sliced up and unconscious."

By this time, he's overtaken her and he has to shout through the noise of the rain. "Although I'm curious. How that little piece of good news. Will help us find Doc."

"We've seen Jack. Go into surgery before."

"Pickett's chick," he counters, instantly getting her drift.

They share a brief but confident smile.

And this feels familiar to him, almost like they had done this before in some other life, some other circumstance. Two fugitives on the run. He's never had a partner before. Too risky. Too messy. But he thinks, maybe, it's not that bad, to have someone to run with.

And perhaps it's because he's so distracted and feeling light and happy that he doesn't feel it at first.

It's strange, and backward, how it happens. Like lightning and thunder.

The pain first, marring and searing through his flesh.

Then the sound, echoing resignedly in the air.

----

He's no hero. And if he had the chance, he'd like to clarify that he wasn't trying to be one.

But he guesses that's how it will look and play out in her stories. If she ever decides to tell it. If they ever live to tell it.


	4. To Die Together

"Well, look who decided to stay after all."

She's pushed into the room, the door slamming behind her. There is blood all over, ominous and fresh.

And it alarms him, sure, but what he finds more terrifying is the slump in her shoulders, the defeat in her eyes. The unsaid he's already calculated in his mind.

They do not speak for a while. Just standing, a few steps apart, soaked in the silence of the room. No glass in between.

Which is odd and anti-climactic. All this pathos, anticipation reduced to this one moment, leaving them with the dilemma of how to cram the feelings and the explanations into one conversation. "I couldn't leave without you, Jack. He, Sawyer, he's…"

"It's okay, Kate" is the only thing he can offer.

It's because he has nothing left to offer.

----

"They shouldn't be sharing one cell."

"Relax. They're not going anywhere," she says, eyes never leaving the screen.

"Ben…"

The name provokes her and she gets defensive. "Ben is on the operating table, unconscious. When he wakes up, he would be grateful. But not grateful enough to be forgiving."

"Let's give them this."

----

They say it's when you reach rock bottom that things will start looking up. People love ironies like that because they are witty substitutes for things they can't explain.

But there is some comfort in that, perhaps, even courage; to not know, and still carry on.

It is dumb, false security. Others would call it faith.

It is her that closes the gap, reaching for him and wrapping her arms around his torso. He doesn't reciprocate. Instead, he starts to, of all things, cry. And laugh. For no other reason than the fact that he can't think of anything else to say or do.

There is power in helplessness. For there lies honesty, brutal and graceful. You are stripped of everything, your wounds bared in plain sight, and still tender to the touch. But there is no pride, fear, shame, or guilt to cover them up. You come to the conclusion that it is pointless to try.

She, however, has one more fear to shed. "I love you." She breathes into his chest.

"Just so you know."

No pride, fear, shame, guilt.

He can move now, feel the nerves in his fingers, and he envelops her in his embrace, tight and breathless.

When you have been pruned, skinned to your core, only the salient remains: the desire to be.

----

Hours after, they come for them.

They find them sitting on the floor, huddled together at the far corner of the room. It is him that stands up first, stepping immediately into view, while she lingers in the dark.

He seems unnervingly calm.

"He knows what you've done," the woman ventures from the other side of the glass.

"He wants to see you."

He nods.

From the shadows, a hand reaches for his. And she steps, finally, into the light.

"We will."

No pride, fear, shame, guilt.


End file.
